The morning light spilled into Rudura's chambers in thin golden lines, slipping through the carved lattice of the window. It was earlier than he usually woke, yet his eyes opened the moment the first sliver of dawn touched the floor. Sleep clung faintly to him, but his mind was sharper than the edge of a newly forged blade. The bargain he had made with his parents still echoed in his thoughts like a drumbeat that refused to fade.
If he wanted his parents to even consider letting him set foot in the Roman Empire, he had to pass the Malavata exam with perfect grades in every aspect. No room for "good enough," no space for "almost." It was perfection or nothing.
And perfection required more than sword swings and battle stances.
Rudura swung his legs out of bed, the chill of the marble floor waking his senses. The deal wasn't just about muscle. His father, Chandragupta Maurya, was a man of strategies that could outlast entire armies. His mother, Durdhara, was a queen whose wit could slice deeper than a dagger. They'd never let him risk the journey without knowing he could handle any trap, any negotiation, any shadow of danger.
If he wanted to win, he had to become more than strong.He had to become wise.
That was the thought that burned in his chest as he stepped out of his chambers.
The Malavatas already drilled him hard every day. His body would be ready for whatever physical trial the exam threw at him. But mental strength… that was where most warriors stumbled.
The histories told enough stories — mighty generals who lost battles because they didn't understand the minds of their enemies, kings who lost empires because they couldn't read the politics of foreign lands. Rudura wouldn't be one of them.
So after training each day, he would devote the rest of his energy to the one place where centuries of knowledge slept — the royal library.
The palace library was a fortress of silence, tucked away in the western wing of the royal compound. Its arched doorway was guarded not by soldiers, but by an unspoken rule: you entered with respect, or you didn't enter at all.
As Rudura pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent wrapped around him — a mix of sandalwood oil from the polished shelves, the dusty perfume of parchment, and the faint tang of ink that had long dried.
Light poured through tall windows, fractured into golden shards by the intricate latticework, falling across rows upon rows of shelves like blessings from some patient god of wisdom. The air was still, save for the occasional flicker of a flame from the oil lamps lining the far corners.
He stepped between the shelves, his hand brushing along the smooth wood. Titles in dozens of scripts stared back at him from the spines — bold, proud letters from empires long gone, delicate scripts from lands far beyond the Mauryan reach.
Today, he wasn't here to lose himself in curiosity. He had a mission.
His eyes roamed upward as he walked, scanning the higher shelves for something that would help him understand the great empires of their time. That was when he saw it — a red-covered book, its edges slightly frayed, sitting just beyond his reach.
It wasn't particularly large, but the way it caught the sunlight made the color almost glow.
Without thinking twice, Rudura stretched on his toes, fingers brushing the spine. The shelf was high, even for him. He reached a little further, shifting his weight forward—
Thud!
Pain bloomed on the crown of his head like an unexpected spark. He winced, hand flying up instinctively. Something heavy had fallen, and the sound had echoed in the silence like a gong.
Rudura looked down, blinking at the object that had assaulted him.
It was a book — but not the red one. This one was black.Not just any black, but the deep, almost oily shade of black leather aged for centuries.
A thin veil of dust still clung to it, disturbed only by the impact. A faint golden script shimmered weakly across the cover, like it had once been brilliant but now whispered its name instead of shouting it.
"échecs humains."
The words felt strange on his tongue when he mouthed them silently. Not Sanskrit. Not Prakrit. Not Greek, either. It wasn't a language he recognized immediately.
He crouched, picking it up carefully. The leather was rough against his fingertips, the kind of texture that spoke of decades, maybe centuries, without a touch. The corners were bent slightly inward, and when he shifted it in his hands, he felt its weight — heavier than it should have been for its size.
He brushed the dust off the cover with the side of his palm, watching the gold letters glint faintly in the filtered sunlight.
Something about the book felt… alive. Not in a literal way, but in the way that certain objects seem to watch you back when you look at them for too long.
Rudura's brows furrowed. A book this old, in a language he didn't know, in his father's library? That was unusual.
For a moment, he considered opening it. Curiosity gnawed at him like a persistent mouse. What was inside? Old military strategies? Forgotten histories? A map to somewhere no one had seen in centuries?
But another part of him hesitated. If this book was as rare as it looked, it might be fragile. Worse — it might be one of those texts reserved only for certain scholars, guarded like a secret weapon.
No, better to ask Guru Malavatas first.
That settled, he glanced around for a safe spot. He didn't want to forget about it, but he also didn't want to risk damaging it by leaving it precariously perched.
He slid it gently onto a lower shelf, tucking it neatly between two thicker volumes. Here, it would be easy to spot when he came back.
Rudura straightened, casting one last glance at the golden letters."échecs humains."
The words rolled around in his mind like a pebble in a stream. He didn't know what they meant, but they carried a strange weight, a promise of something important.
He shook the thought off, turning back to the shelf above to finally take the red book he had originally come for.
As he walked out of the library, the red book under his arm, his thoughts kept circling back to the black one. The sunlight outside felt warmer, the sounds of the palace busier, but somewhere in the back of his mind, the title repeated itself in a quiet, persistent whisper.
"échecs humains."
(Continued In Chapter 20)